


The Sun is Running Late

by virmillion



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Apocalypse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, only a little on purpose, there's no actual dialogue in this one which i think is pretty neat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-08-19 21:51:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16542947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virmillion/pseuds/virmillion
Summary: (to the tune of R.E.M.'s 1987 WENZ promo song that looped for twenty four hours) it's the end of the world as he knows it





	The Sun is Running Late

You know what? Everyone always has a different view of how the apocalypse will come about, what they’d do, how they’d survive it. Even in more common situations, like school and workplaces, I guarantee you everyone in that building has, at one point or another, figured out their plan for when they met their end. So many different notions for the same situation, whether it’s to defend everyone around you, to run for cover, to go on the offense, but no one can really know what they would do until they’re put in that situation.

    I guess that’s why I was so accepting of my own complacency with my looming demise—I had planned to stand up and fight back all along, so proving myself wrong was less of a reality check and more of an inevitable surrender.

    As it stands, waking up to a sunrise isn’t the worst way to spend my last day alive, I suppose. If you wanted to get into the specifics of how bad a nine am sunrise is, more power to you, but I’d rather take the streaking pinks and melting oranges than contemplate how deadly such a beautiful sight is. Even with the sky in tatters, shot through with angry reds and blinding yellows, it’s a welcome view in an otherwise empty town. After everyone left, there wasn’t a whole lot to do besides admire, so I’ll take what I can get, thank you very much.

    Okay, so I didn’t technically see the sun rising, but I did get to see the residue of it in the shards of mirror beside my mattress. Atop a pile of blankets, all intentionally familiar smells, I could just barely see the sun demanding my attention, of which I have a surplus. Naturally, I took the most logical step to follow and tumbled my way onto the hardwood floor. With the cold resistance serving as a reminder that I still had a life to live, I made my way outside.

    Awesome. All caught up. I’m facing my last day, the town is empty, the sun is running late, and the world is silent.

    With the smallest of grimaces at the quickly rising heat, I turn back to check everything in the building—okay, the shack, if we’re being honest, but I’m trying to be polite here. That photo of them still hangs proud over the door, the edges tattered and burnt. We all looked so happy when we took that, it almost feels like a mockery to look back on the memory with fondness. The mattress stolen from a warehouse down the street remains where it always has, and where I suspect it always will—I’m sure I won’t make it through the day, but I’ll be damned if that mattress ever disappears.

    Speaking of not making it through the day, I glance up once more. The sky—it used to be blue, I remember, just like his eyes, but not anymore. Now nothing would dare come between the sun and the planet, nothing would dare try to put out the small fires littering the street. Beside me, a stray old newspaper rolls away, burning like an ant under a microscope. Above it all, the sun, glowing yellow and orange and proud. It’s the center of that ball of fire, truthfully, that makes me so certain of my looming demise. The sun has never been purple in the center before.

    The funniest thing, though, is that this isn’t too different from normal anymore. Yeah, I still feel a pang in my chest when I think about them, and I know I’ll be making the daily trek out to the cemetery like always, and I know it’s always been my fault, but that doesn’t mean I can change it. It just means that I’ve gone numb to the pain. Would’ve been better if I’d been the one to go instead of Thomas, but what can you do, right?

    Finally content with the inevitable, I reach down to grab the red water pitcher. I’m not quite clear on how its contents haven’t evaporated under the relentless heat, but I’m not about to question convenience, either. Every flower, every tree, and every little weed gets a splash of water on my way down to the main road, leaving the shack behind me as I go. By the time the pitcher runs dry, the neighborhood animals have all started coming out of the woodwork.

    I offer each of them the usual bits of food from my pockets, careful to lure the shy ones further away to prevent fights. A fruitless endeavour, I know, since they’ll all be gone tomorrow, but it’s nice to feel like I’m making just a small difference, just for a little while, you know?

    Even the birds flock to me, demanding food I don’t have, attention I can’t give. I have one task to carry out today, one more apology to make, and they aren’t involved in it.

    A single bead of sweat trickling down my back turns into a torrent as the sun rises still, drawing closer to me with every step. Weaving between the cars, all abandoned in everyone’s haste to escape, I duck to avoid seeing the side mirrors. I haven’t seen my face in two years, and I’m not about to start now. I looked perfectly fine in that picture with them, and even if they’re gone now, I’d rather pretend I haven’t changed.

    A cough wrenches its way from my throat, reminding me why, exactly, they left me here. I hate it, the remembering of why they left me, of the hurt in Virgil’s eyes, of the cold acceptance in Logan’s. Once he knew I wouldn’t make it, he severed all ties as if we hadn’t been friends for years at that point. It’s understandable, I guess—no one wants to take an asthmatic off the planet, especially not one prone to illness. Much easier to lose one life than risk thousands.

    Doesn’t make it hurt any less, but I see his point.

    I flinch away as a car beeps loudly at me, still unused to the curious animals that have taken up residence in the unlocked vehicles. Granted, they’ve inhabited several more than they would have, had I not smashed in the windows to create new homes, but still. Just pretend that I did it so there were less opportunities for me to see my own face. Humor a dying man’s last wish, won’t you? Or, well, no, don’t do that, I guess. Can’t really honor the wish if I’m already gone, huh? Ha, yeah, that’s a little more logical. That’s what Logan would say, anyway.

_I wish he were here._

    I shake the thought from my mind, continuing on my way. The path is treacherous, to say the least, what with the drastic climate changes lately. Warped roads and new hills appear at every turn, intent on blocking me off from my destination. One thing I will say in the sun’s favor—its refusal to submit has certainly forced me to be more physically fit. As much as I can be, at least.

    Another car rolls down a hill, missing me by mere inches as I hop onto the curb. That was Patton’s car, I remember. It crunches over some loose limbs before bumping to a stop, evidently not high enough in the momentum department to outdo a complete body. Stoppable force, meet dead object. I believe you two have interacted before, but reconciling with old acquaintances is always fun.

    Oh, right. I might’ve forgotten to mention how many lives we lost trying to escape. Mostly skin and bones at this point, all separated and unidentifiable after so long in the sun. I wonder if they all knew it was the end. Maybe no one did. Logan knew, that’s for sure. He knew exactly what he was doing when he left me here, and he knew exactly what Thomas would do when he found out.

    That doesn’t mean this is Logan’s fault, don’t get me wrong. This is just because of my faulty genetics. Logan was acting to preserve humanity, regardless of what planet that would happen on.

    I finger at the red sash roped over my shoulder, rubbing my thumb over the stump where my shoulder ends. Yeah, burying my old friends was a little difficult to do with one arm, but someone had to do it. The only reason their bodies still litter the streets is that the graveyard ran out of room. Probably would’ve been able to find a new burial ground if it weren’t for the bum leg, either.

    I suspect you’re starting to get a better picture of why they left me behind.

    Somewhere overhead, a bell tolls—the only real sound I’ve heard in the last two years. There’ve been hallucinations and everything, sure, but those are just in my head. This ringing bell, this is what reminds me that I am, in fact, still alive, no matter how much I might hate that reality. It chimes off nine more times—ten am, if I’m to believe that matters in any way. It doesn’t, really, so much as it means the sun is lurking ever closer, a deadly beam of unstoppable heat that’s probably going to kill me where I stand without me even noticing. I’ll be gone before I know what happened.

    Wishful thinking.

    I think it’s right about here, dear reader, that everything sort of hit me. You know how that happens? How all at once, you realize just how awful everything is? Yeah. Yeah, right here, as I remember the pain in Virgil’s eyes as Logan dragged him away, as I reflect on the resigned acceptance as Patton turned away, didn’t even say goodbye, didn’t even give me one last hug because it would’ve killed us right then and there, neither of us would’ve made it, I would’ve held on too tight and never let go and the sun would’ve obliterated everything and still I wouldn’t have let go—

    Yeah.

    Yeah, that’s right now.

    I feel my legs give out beneath me, collapsing to the pavement and leaning up against a blue car. It might’ve been Logan’s, maybe not, but it doesn’t really matter anymore. He’s gone, and I’m certainly not about to drive it. I can hear the animals calling in the distance, bemoaning the rising temperatures, and I can even see the steam hovering low over the black concrete, but it doesn’t really matter by now. I’ve accepted it, so I shouldn’t be so upset about what’s coming.

    People always talk about how they don’t realize they’re crying until someone else points it out, how they don’t notice the tears until their sleeves are stained with snot and salt. A nice sentiment, that your mind removes the sadness before you can notice, but it’s not me. I feel it all the way in my gut, that same stabbing ache as my eyes burn, as I press the heel of my hand against them. The world turns black behind the safety of my blindfold hand, spots popping up that vanish when I try to see them. Everything has vanished, including my will to stop crying, because what’s the point? No one’s going to see me, and certainly no one will care that my last moments were spent in tears.

    By the time a sizable puddle builds up beneath me, I’ve gathered the sense to press my head between my knees. I don’t know whether this helps at all, but it certainly can’t do anything to diminish my bravery—I never had enough of that, anyway.

    Running, though. Running, I can do. Running, I can do quite well, because I can focus on the burn in my chest instead of the burn behind my eyes. Encouraged by this smallest of sentiments, I rise on annoyingly shaky legs, taking off and letting my legs do the work. I’m sure the rubber of the soles is nearly melted through with every slap against the pavement, but that doesn’t really matter, does it? No one else is going to be using these shoes.

    This might be about where you ask what’s going on here. Why didn’t you off yourself after everyone left? Why are you running when there’s nowhere to run to? Why are you crying out of nowhere? Why are you avoiding how truly terrified you are of the world ending?

    This might also be where I would give you some answers, if I thought you deserved them. Do you? Have you earned the right to see the final thoughts of a dead man? How do you measure that, even? Did you think to yourself, _oh, I wouldn’t have left him behind, so surely I’m a good person?_ Did you think that? Maybe you did, and maybe it’s true, but that’s just what you want to think. You weren’t there, not when they were. You weren’t there to see Logan’s sleepless nights, where he was so determined to find a way to bring me along. You weren’t there to see Virgil’s rage, when he started shattering glass and lighting buildings on fire, because there was nothing else to do. You weren’t there to see Patton’s desperation, to see him curled up in a corner, his face expressionless because he didn’t want anyone to know just how much he was hurting—no, he wanted to comfort me in our last hours together. You weren’t there to see that. You’re walking in on my story in the final pages, and you assume you know what the author was thinking from chapter one.

    Well, I have some news for you.

    You don’t know what the author was thinking.

    _I’m_ the author of this doomed story, and I don’t like knowing how it ends.

    So maybe you’ll lend me your ear, just a little longer, before I run out of ink.

    Sorry.

    Sorry for going off on you like that. I know it’s hard, and I know I have no excuse, but seeing my splintered reflection in shattered car mirrors is apparently more than I can take. I pause in the middle of the road, entranced by my own eyes, ringed in red, soaked in hate. They stare back at me, and I hate to think they’re mine. I hate to think what manner of empty husk I’ve become by now, just how awful of a person I must have been to get here. I’m not trying to play the victim game, but maybe you’ll forgive me for it—you are, after all, reading this, after I’ve been long gone. It’s probably been thousands of years for you to have gotten this far. I hope the future is nicer than the now.

    Up ahead stands the cemetery I unintentionally overstocked with people I barely knew. At the farthest point from the entrance, nestled among the sprawling roots of an oak tree, is that slab of concrete. I will admit that I never learned how to engrave, so the sharpie ink is streaking down, but I like to think that makes it look more unique. Thomas always wanted a cooler name, but I was the one creating the headstone, so I got to pick what went on it. Even now, his name looks painfully beautiful in the careful calligraphy.

    This is the part where a normal person might talk aloud, voice their feelings to the indifferent sky. I don’t do that. I haven’t heard my voice since they left, since I swallowed the goodbye and merely waved from the mattress. You would think I could conjure up the willpower to talk to Thomas one last time, to apologize for not noticing, to apologize for not getting there in time, to apologize for not knowing the way to the bridge, to apologize for not paying enough attention to him, to apologize for watching Patton instead of looking out for him, to apologize for—

    Yeah. Yeah, you would think I’d be humane enough to talk to my own dead brother, but no. I can’t make myself do it. Maybe it’s out of solidarity, that my last words to Thomas were my last words ever, but there’s no real way to say for sure. In all likelihood, this won’t affect you in any way once you lose interest in my story, but thinking what I can’t say is the only closure I’ve ever had. _I love you,_ I thought to Thomas, but I never said it. _I’m sorry,_ I thought to Thomas, but I never said it. _Please come back,_ I thought to Thomas, but there never would have been a way for him to hear it. In a world melting down by its own source of life, his headstone is the only thing cold anymore.

    You know, this started as a way for me to chronicle my last days before the end of the world. I don’t even know if you found the volumes preceding this one. I’ve always had so much to say, but what are the odds a stranger will pick up a random set of a few thousand words and care about them? Not very high, I suspect, but again, you’re reading this, so what do I know?

    The way back to that stupid mattress is relatively clear, save for the usual bodies and cars. I sidestep them like any other day, readily ignoring the glaring light that just won’t go away. By the time I make it back to the shack, almost everything is gone. Far more stray animals litter the path, well into their stages of rigor mortis, and I’d like to say I don’t shed a tear at the loss. It wouldn’t be true, but I’d still like to say it.

    More streaks of red pierce the sky, a much angrier pink than before as the backdrop. The yellow has all but vanished, and the orange is on its last legs as the red takes over. That same purple pinpoint, right in the center of the sun, is far too close for comfort. I can see the door to the shack now, burning away like little more than paper. I know it’s guaranteed death, but I also know I have to do this. Even as the sun sinks lower, even as everything takes on a pinkish red sheen, I know I have to see that picture again. It’ll be the last thing I do, that much is certain, but it matters.

    To me, it matters.

    I almost wish I were gone already, that the world had taken me at Thomas’s side. I wish I weren’t here anymore, because then I wouldn’t have to fear never seeing them again, I wouldn’t even have time to worry about it. It’s because the sun is running late, it wasn’t here on time this morning, and it’s just dragging out my end.

    The screen of red is nearly blinding now, shutting out almost everything in sight as I force my way through the smoking front door. The picture is right where it should be, all five of us grinning out as if nothing was wrong. That was back when they were convinced I could come, when no one knew anything was wrong with Thomas, when Logan hadn’t given up on me.

    With a blistering hand, my palm cracking, I take down the picture and admire my smile. Still had a full set of arms then, too. Such is life, I guess, that part of me left before the rest of me could follow. How insensitive of my own limb, to abandon me like this. Downright rude, is what that is.

    My vision is but a pinhole now. My head aches, I can’t feel my legs, and my tears are evaporating faster than they can fall. I can feel my eyes drying themselves out, but that doesn’t mean I can make them stop. Even my lungs are giving up, protesting against the suffocating air.

    If I focus, I can just barely make out the edges of the photo, curling in as they blacken in my hand. The world tunnels as the sun becomes fully blinding, only the smallest pinprick of sight left.

    As the picture falls from my stiff hand, already in ashes before it hits the floor, the last thing I catch a glimpse of is Thomas, grinning bright and wide.

    A similar smile adorns my own face.


End file.
